


Uneven

by providentialeyes



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, First Meetings, M/M, Medical Procedures, Meet-Cute, Pre-Relationship, Talon-Era Baptiste, Talon-Era Mauga, bliz is killing me with this wait so fuck it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-28 20:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20069749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/providentialeyes/pseuds/providentialeyes
Summary: “You’ll be lucky if there’s no shrapnel from the suit,” Baptiste says bitterly.It’d only make his job harder.He frowns at the blood obscuring the wound, opening a cleaning kit and grabbing Mauga’s arm at the elbow, carefully wiping away the blood and sweat.“Ah,” Mauga sighs deeply, “Are any of us ever that lucky?”





	1. Chapter 1

Baptiste hadn’t intentionally kept his distance, it was just coincidence that their paths hadn’t crossed, almost two weeks into his service for Talon.

Until now.

Mauga moves through the transport ship with ease uncommon for a man his size.

Baptiste strips his soiled gloves, gesturing his teammate to join the rest and reminding him to go easy on his wounds.

“Must be a taxing job, one medic to a dozen soldiers,” Mauga says jovially and sits in the newly vacated spot on the bench.

There’s a dark stain on the man’s long-sleeve shirt, fresh blood beading through the cotton.

“Can you lift your arms?” Baptiste asks, hardly registering the comment as he slips on a new pair of gloves.

He’s focused when he’s working, losing himself in the movements of cleaning away spilt blood, sewing up gashes, digging out bullets, bandaging limbs.

“Mm,” Mauga hums curiously and shrugs each shoulder, wincing lightly when he lifts the injured one, “Maybe not.”

“Hope you aren’t fond of this shirt,” Baptiste says and reaches behind him to the cart of supplies, grabbing the metal shears.

Mauga lifts one brow and watches the blades closely, amber eyes going from amiable to hawkish in the literal blink of an eye.

Baptiste feels the air between them thicken with a touch of hostility, and though he knows it’s not aimed at him he feels his skin prickle with goosebumps.

He moves slow, almost excruciatingly, and reaches up to Mauga’s collar, lifting it away from the skin and sliding the lower blade under.

Mauga flinches slightly when the metal touches his skin.

“Sorry,” Baptiste mutters.

“Usually,” Mauga says in a low voice, “I’m the one that comes out unscathed. There was a hole in my suit, though, forgot to get it repaired from the last firefight.”

Baptiste glances up at Mauga’s face but the older man isn’t watching him, instead he’s staring across the cabin, out one of the windows at the dark clouds passing by.

Baptiste lowers his gaze back to his work, cutting the sleeve open through the cuff, letting the pieces fall to either side of the older man’s large arm.

His eyes linger on the tattoos, trying to read the story in the symbols before he turns away to pull the cart closer.

“You’ll be lucky if there’s no shrapnel from the suit,” Baptiste says bitterly.

It’d only make his job harder.

He frowns at the blood obscuring the wound, opening a cleaning kit and grabbing Mauga’s arm at the elbow, carefully wiping away the blood and sweat.

“Ah,” Mauga sighs deeply, “Are any of us ever that lucky?”

Baptiste blinks in surprise and makes an unsure face at the older man, shrugging lopsidedly as he lightly twists Mauga’s arm.

Mauga lets out a slow breath through clenched teeth that ends up sounding more like the hiss of a crocodile than the sigh of a man.

The blood is cleared away and Baptiste can see the jagged edges of a bullet entrance wound, along with small shards of metal lodged in the surrounding tissue.

Baptiste clicks his tongue in disappointment.

“I called it, eh?” Baptiste mutters and grabs a pair of sturdy tweezers as he drops the soiled wipes into the hazard bag.

Mauga twists his head to look at his shoulder as Baptiste shifts one leg up onto the bench, half kneeling in order to get leverage over the older man’s wounds.

“So you did,” Mauga says, his tone amused.

Baptiste huffs quietly through his nose and pulls out the first piece of metal, tossing it into the hazard bag.

He’s allowed leniency with his medicine in Talon.

They don’t care about protocol, as long as he gets their agents healed and back in fighting condition.

He can imagine the horror on his mentors’ faces at the conditions of his ‘clinic’.

Even during the Crisis, there was a standard upheld by the coalition’s medics.

He retains the most necessary knowledge, to avoid infection, contamination.

The last thing he wants to do is endanger his teammates via malpractice.

At the same time, this is damage control at its most basic sense, and the faster he gets everyone stitched back together, the faster they can go on their next mission.

The faster they can get paid.

“How loud are your thoughts in there, buddy?” Mauga’s voice cuts through his internal, self-aimed monologuing.

“Cacophonous,” Baptiste says absently, carefully extracting a twisted chunk of armor.

Mauga lets out a sharp, breathy laugh, turning to look back out the window.

“I saw you during the fight,” Mauga says, “You’re quick.”

“Have to be, right? Even you are.”

“Hey,” Mauga says, feigning offense, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Baptiste sniffs, biting down on his tongue and setting his jaw to fight the smile trying to break free.

“How’s your pain tolerance?” Baptiste asks as he flicks the last chunk of shrapnel into the bag, studying the bullet wound, edges already clotting.

“You’re asking _now?”_

“Those were splinters,” Baptiste jokes, “This is a _big_ bullet, ami.”

“Hmph.”

“So?” Baptiste asks, “Numbing, yes or no?”

“I’m your last patient today, right?” Mauga tilts forward to look around the cabin, the rest of the team at the far end, talking quietly and refueling.

“Uh-huh.”

“Spare no milligram,” Mauga says wryly and loosely crosses his arms, elbows on his thighs.

Baptiste readies the syringe and pinches as much of the flesh around the wound as he can without disturbing it.

It’s an easier task said than done, Mauga’s skin pulled taught by the generous muscle underneath.

Baptiste’s brows furrow in concentration and he manages to numb the area.

He’ll have to move quickly now, no doubt that a man Mauga’s size will metabolize the anesthetic at an accelerated rate.

“You feel this?” Baptiste asks as he lightly presses around the wound, adding more pressure when he sees no response from the older man.

“Not really.”

Baptiste grabs a fresh scalpel and forceps and gets to work freeing the bullet.

“Did you have to treat Mel from their tumble off the roof?” Mauga asks quietly.

“Is that what happened?” Baptiste scoffs, “They wouldn’t say how they managed to scrape every exposed bit of skin.”

Mauga snickers and Baptiste lifts up the bullet for Mauga to see.

The older man looks at it and whistles lowly at the size.

Baptiste tosses it and the tools into the bag and quickly threads a needle, cupping a towel under the wound and flushing it.

“You are quick, huh?” Mauga says contemplatively, “It’ll be nice to have a competent medic around.”

“Hold your opinion on my work for when the anesthetic wears off,” Baptiste jokes.

Mauga laughs quietly and Baptiste clicks his tongue in reprimand.

“If these stitches are uneven, it’ll be your fault,” Baptiste grumbles and pushes two fingers into the front of Mauga’s shoulder, getting the older man to sit up straight.

“Fine, fine,” Mauga relents and stills himself, threading his fingers together and sitting up in a mockingly proper manner.

Baptiste notices and huffs his amusement, carefully tying off the sutures.

He bends back to grab a bio-patch and one last wipe to clean the area.

Smoothing the edges of the patch out Baptiste looks up to see the older man watching him.

Mauga smiles easily, showing sharp canines, eyes sharp and searching.

“Looking forward to working with you,” Mauga says and stands up, heading over to the rest of the team and leaving Baptiste feeling unbalanced.

But excited.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time Baptiste sees Mauga the large man is pushing the police force of this industrial city back, a broad shield distorting the world on the other side. 

Baptiste scans the area quickly and takes in a mental count of each of his downed teammates. 

Too many, is the number. 

He jogs up to Mauga and flanks the older man, watching the grid of the shield flickering with each bullet impact. 

“I see you got your suit repaired!” Baptiste says loudly, fighting to be heard over the rapid shots from the enemy. 

“Hah!” Mauga aims a sly grin at him before turning back to the action, “We have some good armorsmiths among us!”

“‘Armorsmiths’,” Baptiste scoffs quietly to himself. 

He takes down two of the officers then slips behind Mauga to the cover of an overturned car where one of his teammates is huddled.

“Can you walk?” He asks quickly, assessing the twist of her forearm with a grimace. 

“Yeah,” She says, wiping back hair sticking to her face from sweat with her good hand, her helmet shattered a few yards away, “Little dizzy.”

“Come,” Baptiste says and gets her good arm around his shoulder, helping her up and guiding her to the roof of a nearby building. 

Their extraction point. 

\--

He repeats this process which each Talon agent who cannot fight. 

The sound of a grenade going off has him racing to the edge of the roof and ducking behind the ledge before craning his neck and peering over. 

He can see bodies, a dozen laid out on the blacktop. 

They aren’t Talon, and, therefore, not his problem. 

Or, at least, that’s how he reasons with the nausea in his gut. 

Mauga isn’t in sight, but their sniper on an adjacent roof signals towards the transport airship coming from the South. 

The ramp and stability legs are lowered as the ship comes to hover over them and Baptiste springs into action, helping his team on. 

Mauga comes out of the stairwell door as Baptiste is assisting the last agent. 

He’s closely followed by the sniper and a few stragglers from the streets below. 

Baptiste sees blood running down the lower half of the silver armor and frowns heavily at the older man before making his way up the ramp. 

\--

His teammates become bodies to fix, and Baptiste falls into the rhythm of cleaning, suturing, and bandaging wounds. 

He notices Mauga out of the corner of his eye, sprawled on the opposite bench and staring out the window. 

\--

As Baptiste is pulling off his armor a shadow falls over him, and he knows instantly why. 

“What happened to usually coming out unscathed, huh?” Baptiste asks wryly as the leg pieces unlock and he piles them with the rest, left just in his black fatigues. 

“Ah, maybe I just wanted an excuse to talk to you,” Mauga jokes and moves to sit on the bench next to Baptiste. 

The younger man rolls his eyes and finally looks at Mauga. 

The older man has removed his armor and has some scrap of fabric tied around his thigh, just above the knee. 

“Do you want to remove these or am I to continue destroying your clothes?” Baptiste asks and gestures to the joggers Mauga is wearing. 

“Well they’re already soaked with blood,” Mauga sighs and leans back against the metal wall of the ship’s cabin, “Let me preserve the shreds of my dignity, eh?” 

Baptiste snorts loudly in amusement then twitches in surprise at himself. 

He notices the raise of one of Mauga’s eyebrows and quickly busies himself with finding the shears in the cart of supplies. 

He turns back around and helps the older man straighten his leg. 

Baptiste moves just as slow with the shears but there’s an easiness to Mauga, unlike the last time Baptiste had blades near him. 

Baptiste pulls the bottom of the pantleg out of Mauga’s boot and gets the lower blade under the fabric, keeping his fingers pulling up on the pantleg. 

He splits the fabric up to mid-thigh then makes slits on either side to give him more room to work. 

“Scoot forward,” Baptiste says as he curls a hand behind Mauga’s calf, only encompassing about half of it.

“Yessir,” Mauga says sarcastically, but he shuffles forward so Baptiste can work off the makeshift tourniquet. 

Baptiste squints at the wound, one side of his face scrunching up in distaste. 

“What’s the verdict, Doc?” Mauga asks lowly, leaning forward and propping his head up with an elbow on his uninjured leg. 

“You’re lucky this didn’t reach the artery,” Baptiste mutters, “What happened?”

“Dented my armor,” Mauga says, looking contemplative, “I take back my comment, our armorsmiths are shit.”

“Armorsmiths, hm?” Baptiste echoes, glancing up at Mauga as he kneels next to the older man’s leg, cleaning the wound. 

“Smiths of armor,” Mauga says. 

“I know what it means.”

“Don’t like that word, then?”

“It’s pretentious.”

“And ‘cacophonous’ isn’t?”

Baptiste opens his mouth to protest, then looks up at Mauga to see the teasing smirk. 

Baptiste takes a deep breath in to calm himself, pressing his tongue to his teeth and returning to his work. 

“Every professional is a ‘smith’ of some kind,” Mauga says easily, shifting to lean against the bench back. 

With the amused glint in his amber eyes and the spread of his legs, the older man looks _cocky._

“What about me?” Baptiste asks before he can decide not to, curiosity potent in his veins. 

“Hm,” Mauga studies him as he goes back to tending to the wound, numbing and pushing at flesh to close the gash, “A body-smith.”

Baptiste huffs quietly and shakes his head dismissively. 

“No, no,” Mauga flicks his wrist, as though he could physically swat away Baptiste’s disbelief, “I’m right.”

“A smith generally implies the creating of something,” Baptiste says quietly, “I do not _make_ bodies.”

“Well let’s bend the definition a little.”

“Alright then, what is this new definition?”

“Someone who can take a person apart and put them back together,” Mauga says lowly. 

There’s something in the tone the older man uses. 

Something warm and dark at the same time. 

A fire, at first, then the ash left behind. 

Baptiste’s throat suddenly feels dry when he swallows that idea. 

He knows, logically, that he’s surrounded by dangerous humans. 

He even might be inclined to admit that he’s become one, himself. 

Was formed into one, with each event of tragedy and violence in his life. 

Baptiste ties off the last stitch and rises to his feet slowly. 

“Do you agree?” Mauga asks. 

“Sure,” Baptiste murmurs, unconvincing as he smooths a bio-patch over the wound. 

“Hm,” Mauga says, reaching down to rip the excess fabric clean off, when he stands he towers over Baptiste, who tilts his head back, shoving his locs out of his face after he slips off his  
gloves. 

“Any-” Baptiste clears his throat, the syllables catching on the incorporeal lump in his throat, “Any other injuries?”

“Nah,” Mauga says and starts walking away, “You will.”

“I will?”

“Agree,” Mauga smiles back at him, “Eventually.”

Baptiste watches him walk across the cabin and join the rest of the team with his heartbeat pounding behind his sternum. 


	3. Chapter 3

  
Baptiste isn’t sure if it’s a good thing that he recognizes Mauga’s presence behind him even before the older man speaks.

“Hey buddy,” Mauga says and reaches over Baptiste to grab a mug from the shelves in the kitchen their unit shares.

“Hello,” Baptiste says slowly.

The older man moves away to get coffee and Baptiste frowns down at the eggs he’s cracking pepper over.

“You aren’t usually around when we’re on leave.”

“I like to sightsee.”

“That so?” Mauga hums and turns around at the same time Baptiste does.

Instinct guides Baptiste to shift left and Mauga does the same simultaneously.

They move past each other easily and Baptiste sits at one of the tables with his breakfast.

Mauga sits across from him, the chair creaking in protest.

“So, Baptiste, how are you finding your lodgings with Talon?” Mauga asks.

It’s the first utterance of his name from the older man, at least that Baptiste has heard.

He only knows ‘Mauga’ from overhearing it through orders and coms.

“Fine,” Baptiste says between bites.

“Beds are a bit small, in my opinion,” Mauga jokes.

“Food is good,” Baptiste counters.

“Hm,” Mauga leans back and crosses his arms loosely, “Depends on if you can cook or not.”

“Food is _plenty,”_ Baptiste amends.

“Ah, that it is.”

Baptiste looks up at the older man, only to find Mauga looking at him appraisingly.

“You’ve heard of the incoming missions?”

“Vaguely,” Baptiste says, cheek full of toast, “None of the task leaders have approached me.”

“I’ve been assigned a mission,” Mauga says slowly, “Quick assassin work, but there’s a personal security force.”

“I’m assuming it isn’t stealth,” Baptiste mutters.

“Hey… What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The obvious.”

Mauga laughs softly and looks out towards the window that overlooks the valley.

Their current base is fit into the side of a mountain, one-way glass obscuring any view inside.

“They’ve told me to choose a partner,” Mauga says.

Baptiste sits up, fork scraping over the plate with the suddenness.

“Me?”

“Mm-hm. I think we’d make a good pair, don’t you?”

Baptiste just stares at him, eyes narrowed.

“What?” Mauga asks, tone lowering to a light teasing, “I’ll bash in the doors, you pull out the splinters, eh?”

“More like you’ll drop your shield and we’ll both get shot.”

Mauga turns back to him with a frown.

“Have I not been there, a barrier between you and bullets, for every mission since you joined?”

Baptiste shoves his tongue in front of his upper teeth and frowns back at the older man, brows furrowed.

“I’ll protect you, and when I take the blows, you’ll put me back together,” Mauga leans in, charming smile and warm voice, “We’ll be unstoppable. So... What do you say, body-smith?”

Baptiste sets his fork down and leans back in his chair, studying the older man.

“Why?” Baptiste asks, “I’m the newest, the youngest. You hardly know me.”

“I’ve seen the way you work, with a gun, with a scalpel,” Mauga leans both elbows on the table, lowering his voice to a rumbling murmur, “You’re_ sharp.”_

“Usually sharp and sharp is not considered a good combination.”

“By who?”

“People with sense,” Baptiste says through a tight jaw.

“Ah, _‘sense’,”_ Mauga says airily and rubs at his jaw, “Such a common quality to find amongst people like us. Criminals. Killers.”

Baptiste’s fists clench on the table and he sees Mauga’s eyes flick to them before returning to his face with a brow quirked.

“It’s well-paying,” Mauga says cooly, “A higher take than any mission you’ve been on yet.”

“Money? That is what you are bribing me with?”

“Whatever it is your saving up for, you could add a little padding.”

Baptiste’s expression scrunches in surprise and then confusion.

“What I’m saving up for?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Mauga laughs quietly, “You certainly aren’t spending it.”

“I travel constantly, there are expenses,” Baptiste protests.

“Sure, buddy,” Mauga says mockingly.

“Ah,” Baptiste hisses and pushes back from the table, gathering his plate and utensils before heading back into the kitchen.

He scrubs them clean with unnecessary force, having a whole two minutes of peace before Mauga’s footsteps creep up behind him.

“What did you join for?” Mauga asks quietly from the entrance to the kitchen.

“Money. A place in the world where I’m valued,” Baptiste replies shortly.

“How valued do you think you’d be as part of a team that excels at upper-tier missions?”

Baptiste’s nose twitches as he sets the dishes in the drying rack and turns to face the older man.

Mauga is leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed.

“Did you get this approved?” Baptiste asks, “If this is so important, why would they let _me_ go?”

“Because I asked,” Mauga says slowly and straightens up, taking a few steps towards Baptiste in a way that can only be described as _stalking,_ “And they trust my opinion.”

“Should I?” Baptiste reaches up and rubs at the side of his neck anxiously, Mauga only a few feet away, the younger having to tilt his head back to meet the older man’s eyes.

“If this fails then I won’t ask you again,” Mauga says, spreading his hands out wide in a placating gesture, “I’ll leave you in peace.”

“Okay,” Baptiste says and sucks on the side of his lower lip, “You get one chance.”

“That’s all I need.”

\--

“You remember I said _one_ chance, yeah?” Baptiste says through labored breaths as he leans back heavily on the wall to the side of a doorway.

“Hey, we aren’t done, not yet,” Mauga grins at him, “Hold your opinion until we’re outta here.”

Baptiste takes a deep breath, the dust from obliterated concrete hovering in the air feels like glass in his lungs.

“Okay,” Baptiste whispers.

“Atta boy,” Mauga teases then glances through the doorway, immediately back in combat-mode, “Two from the East.”

“Quiet this time, eh?” Baptiste asks, “No more explosions.”

“Then you can have them,” Mauga says, the barest petulant tone undermining his authority.

Baptiste huffs, but it makes him feel better, that Mauga is _listening._

His opinion seems to matter to the older man, his tactical ideas are never ignored.

It feels good. 

**Author's Note:**

> mannnnnn i want mauga content so bad y'all  
this is really just going off 'what you left behind' but fuck me dude i'm desperate for content  
also yes i did tag this as meet-cute


End file.
